Aftermath of Reichenbach
by Anitapapaya
Summary: What the title says. Probably will be a lot of drabbles...
1. Chapter 1

I've read a lot of fics where John is absolutely broken and can't carry on but I never agreed with that because he was a soldier, he was bound to have been faced with death of his friends before… Anyways, he wouldn't go anywhere until he cleared Sherlock's name would he?

This is sort of a prologue to other chapters that I've planned :)

Disclaimer : I don't own anything. Obviously.

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The people who thought they knew John were under the impression that he would be devastated beyond measure at the death of Sherlock. Those who attended the funeral came armed with carefully thought-out words of comfort and condolences for the supposedly broken man who was left behind. Yet, John was the brave one, the stoic soldier in the still graveyard. He shed not a tear during the entire service and only let his voice waver as he delivered the eulogy.

Only when he returned to 221B Baker Street, closed the door and sat in his chair facing Sherlock's, did he let his feelings show. The tears rolled down the face of the silent, shaking man and he cradled his throbbing head in his hands. It wasn't that John thought of crying as a weakness but more that he only wanted to mourn for the loss of Sherlock in front of people who really knew his best friend.

After his tears dried up, John raised his head, sat up straight, unclenched his fingers and stood up. He only wanted to deal with everything after some sleep.

He approached the skull on the mantle, stroked its top and whispered a 'Goodnight'. The lights in 221B went out.


	2. Chapter 2

It was simple- Sherlock had died and John had lived. Although it would be more accurate to say he was surviving rather than actually _living_. His life had lost its lustre that it previously had with his best friend around. The daily surprises of finding miscellaneous body parts in the fridge and mouldy experiments in the cupboard had been replaced with his astonishment at how much he actually missed Sherlock. The incessant violin playing had gone and left behind a heavy silence. The tantrums and gunshots had disappeared. All in all, it was a boring existence that John was left with, going through the monotonous motions of his days without purpose.

Every morning, John would get out of bed at five on the dot, regardless of how much sleep he had got the previous night. He would wash up, have breakfast, read the newspaper (skipping articles relating to Sherlock and crime), get dressed and finally would lower himself into the well-worn armchair opposite Sherlock's until the clock struck seven. Then, he'd make his way to the private practice (where Sarah had recommended him for a job at, soon after Sherlock's fall) for his shift at eight. Whenever he was done treating his patients, he would pack up and walk home, wasting as much time as possible and watching the crowds. He often got takeaway and ate in front of the television, chucking the leftovers in the fridge after he stopped feeling hungry- one takeaway usually provided him with two meals. After a while of watching television shows mindlessly, he sometimes would switch it off and just lean back in the armchair as he let himself drown in his memories. He'd only make his way up to his room once he was exhausted but never before saying goodnight to the skull.

Fortunately, despite his repetitive days, John was slowly starting to heal. His patients sometimes talked to him while he was examining them and the other general practitioners made small talk and invited him to dinner every alternate week. John began to make friends with the people around the practice although he kept his old acquaintances like Lestrade at bay- they always seemed to tiptoe around him and he didn't like their facade. In fact, Mrs Hudson was the only person from his time before The Fall that he enjoyed seeing and always politely conversed with her when she came up from her downstairs flat to mother him. She had convinced him to stay in the flat by ensuring him that she couldn't possibly bear to rent it out to anyone else and John listened because he only had to pay the same rent he always had with Sherlock's rent being covered by Mycroft (who was simply following Sherlock's demands in his will). He also had some joy brought into his life through the children who came to the practice be cured from runny noses, tummy aches and scrapes from playing rough. They usually were extremely energetic and chatty despite being sick or hurt and had their own unique take on the big scary world. In some ways, it reminded John of Sherlock's immaturity and he always perked up to have some good aspects of his old life returned to him. But there was one visit that would change the course of John's life.

Approximately four months after the fall, a little girl named Amanda came to visit with a tummy ache. Her mother gently chided her while explaining that she had left Amanda with a baby sitter while she went to do her errands and had returned home to a living room full of sweet and chocolate wrappers surrounding a sleeping babysitter while Amanda was glued to the screen enraptured by a movie.

"And now you have a tummy ache hmm? Wasn't such a good idea to eat so many sweets was it Amanda?" John asked her to distract her from the coldness of the stethoscope.

"It wasn't my fault!" she exclaimed. "I was hungry and too busy watching Peter Pan. It's my favourite movie you know?"

"Hmmm," mumbled John as he listened to her heartbeat and stomach. "Who's your favourite character then?"

"Tinkerbell! She's a fairy and is super cool because she can come back to life. You just have to say 'I believe in fairies. I do. I do!' and she'll come back. It's good she can do that because I'm sure Peter Pan would be very sad if she died. They're best friends! I want to be a fairy. See I can fly **_like a fairy_**" she chattered as fast a bullet train while flapping her arms about.

Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, John froze as his mind took him back to the distant memory of Sherlock sarcastically dramatizing the email he had received about the Bluebell case.

"Dr Watson?" queried Amanda's mother, snapping John back to reality.

"Yes, Sorry. She should be fine…" he quickly answered and finished up his consultation, pushing a blossoming idea into the recesses of his brain.

Only when he got home, did John allow the nagging thought to come forth. Perhaps spreading the message 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' would restore his late friend's status and respect even if it could not possibly resurrect him. There were plenty of old clients who supported Sherlock and he still was getting plenty of emails from fanatics who worshiped the man. It would only be too easy to start a movement that would discredit Moriarty and reinstate the great detective.

The ex-soldier in him burst forth as he spent the night creating a plan to avenge Sherlock. He now had an exciting project, a plan to give him purpose and he was going to carry it out to fruition. Finally seeing things looking up, John happily said goodnight to Billy the skull and enjoyed a rare night of restful sleep.


End file.
